


Devil's Due

by howelleheir



Series: The Fallen White Doors [3]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Action & Romance, Alien Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Intercrural Sex, Language Kink, M/M, Non-Human Genitalia, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-27 22:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13890219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/pseuds/howelleheir
Summary: Somehow, he knew that he would pay for these hours, and he had racked up quite a debt over the past few months -- though he had resolved himself to celibacy, the vow hadn't lasted. He could count on one hand the times he'd slept in his own bed. He hadn't gotten better. He'd only become a better liar.





	1. Terok Nor

The morning was eerily quiet, the kind of calm that was rare on the station. No early calls, no meetings, no demands from the Founder, just the dim, distant light of the Bajoran sun striking the window and casting the room in a golden glow. Dukat was still asleep, eyes shielded from the light by Weyoun's hair, breath even and slow on the back of his neck. 

Somehow, he knew that he would pay for these hours, and he had racked up quite a debt over the past few months -- though he had resolved himself to celibacy, the vow hadn't lasted. He could count on one hand the times he'd slept in his own bed. 

He hadn't gotten better. He'd only become a better liar. 

Dukat stirred, not half awake and already kissing at Weyoun's shoulder, a hand trailing down his waist and toying with his hipbone before wrapping around his arm and pulling him onto his back. 

Weyoun watched as his fingers traced the outline of his iteration mark, ghosting over each glyph. The intimacy of switching off their translators, of hearing each other's voices unfiltered, unaltered, had become something of a ritual between them. Weyoun, of course, was fluent in  _ Kardasi, _ but lately he'd been teaching Dukat  _ vortawa. _

_ “Ba,” _ Dukat murmured, sounding out each character as he touched it.  _ “Eiya...Wa-” _

_ “Va,” _ Weyoun corrected.

_ “F-vwa.”  _ He laughed at his own clumsy pronunciation. The sound was difficult for him.  _ “An.” _

“Good,” said Weyoun. “And all together?”

_ “Beivwa.” _

_ “Beiva.” _

_ “Beivvva.” _

_ “Beiva omata, Weiyun senne.” _

Dukat kissed him tenderly.  _ “Beiva omata, Weiyun shan,” _ he whispered against his lips. “My Weyoun is the fifth.”

Weyoun didn't have the heart to tell him that the phrase didn't quite carry the same possessive connotation as its  _ Kardasi _ equivalent, so he just leaned into Dukat's kisses, brushing his thumb over the ridge that bisected his torso, following it to its terminus just above the apex of his thighs. Dukat gritted out a deep, aching sound as Weyoun's palm met the swollen, tender ring of flesh around his vent and pressed down hard, preventing his cock from everting, keeping it trapped for a few agonizing seconds before he relented, circling his fingers around it as it emerged.

As much as he wanted to take control, press Dukat into the mattress, overcome superior strength with the force of sheer need, he knew by now that a subtler approach would reward him more. 

He shifted, pulling Dukat close by the waist and closing his thighs around his cock, squeezing gently, rolling his hips against him, sighing into Dukat's neck at the teasing friction until Dukat, predictably impatient, gripped his jaw and growled, “Turn over.”

Weyoun obliged, rolling to his stomach, lifting his hips and smiling into the pillow. This position had been Dukat's favorite ever since he'd discovered it was  _ possible.  _ Another Cardassian’s anatomy wouldn't have allowed for it, and it simply had never occurred to him to try it with any other species.

He pressed inside slowly, drawing a groan from Weyoun's lips as his body gave way to take him in fully, then another as Dukat maneuvered his legs to the outside and forced Weyoun's thighs shut around him, giving him all the sensation and fullness without the normally-requisite pain. Dukat showed no mercy, gave him no time to adjust as each driving thrust sparked a pang deep in his core. 

He tried to stifle his cries, to bury them in the sheets, but no measure of self-control could hold them back. His back arched, his head flung back into Dukat's shoulder, their bodies, slick with sweat, sliding against one another, until he felt himself clench and contract around Dukat, then a rush of heat, blinding pressure behind his eyes, and a long, low groan that tore through his throat.

Dukat sank heavily to the mattress next to him, gathering him up onto his shoulder. They had a few precious, silent moments, just enough to catch their breath, before the com chirped. A new development on the front. 

Weyoun dressed, and built up the facade that came so easily to him after nearly a year -- the argumentative, disdainful public persona. His men and the Founder took it at face value, but Cardassians understood intimacy by way of conflict well enough for it to be an agreeable arrangement. He could suppress his defect and simultaneously indulge it.

The pressure would lessen after today, after the minefield holding back their reinforcements came down and the Federation’s last hope of victory was crushed. It was only a matter of time.  

 

A feeling of unease built over the course of the morning and into the afternoon. No matter how assured their victory seemed, Weyoun couldn't help but feel it was too easy. Dukat's overconfidence didn't help. Of the few dreams he'd ever had, this felt like the one where he knew something was wrong, but everyone around him wouldn't listen, refused to see the looming danger. 

He didn't feel at all secure until the last mine had been deactivated, and their weapons fired, clearing the field with a blinding burst of light on the viewscreen.

“Send a message to our listening posts in the Gamma Quadrant,” said the Founder. “Tell the reinforcements that the Alpha Quadrant awaits them.”

Dukat stepped close to Weyoun, throwing him a smug look, and in his relief, Weyoun could do nothing but return his smile and nod in silent concession. 

“Sir,” Damar said from his console. “The Defiant. It's heading for the wormhole.”

“Destroy it,” Weyoun ordered.

As Damar tapped out the firing sequence, the console trilled an error.

“What's wrong, Damar?” asked Dukat, an impatient edge to his voice as Damar tried the auxiliary stations. 

“Our weapons. They're offline -- they've been sabotaged!”

Weyoun look from the Founder to Dukat in disbelief. “How can that be?”

Dukat put a steadying hand on his arm, giving a little squeeze, the most comfort he could offer given the circumstances. 

“Major Kira,” he gritted ruefully. 

“Find her,” said Weyoun, “and the other saboteurs. They're to be eliminated on sight.”

A few Cardassian security officers and Jem’Hadar hurried out to join the search. While Damar monitored the sensors and ran diagnostics on the weapons, Weyoun's eyes remained fixed on the viewscreen. The seconds dragged on into a minute, then two. 

The fleet would emerge any moment. 

“Sir, the wormhole is opening,” said Damar. A split second later, it bloomed into view on the screen, a single small ship issuing from it. “The Defiant.”

“Our reinforcements must be right behind.”

But nothing followed. The wormhole closed, leaving the screen empty except for the field of stars against the blackness of empty space. 

 

The corridors were full of soldiers rushing to the airlocks, and the drone of the emergency sirens and the repeating evacuation order. Weyoun escorted the Founder to the  _ Tenak’Talar, _ clearing a path for her through the crowd. 

Before he stepped over the threshold, he looked back. Dukat hadn't yet made it to the airlock. His eyes scanned the hall, hoping to see him coming. He should have been there by now. 

Weyoun took an unsteady breath. He should go on without him. Get the ship ready to leave before the Federation's forces arrived. If Dukat made it out, all the better. But his feet, almost of their own volition, carried him back the way he came, and then to the habitat ring, and Ziyal’s quarters. She was the only thing that would have kept Dukat from meeting him.

He almost collided with Damar in the corridor. He was pressed bodily against the wall, drawing his weapon. Instinctively, Weyoun came to a dead halt and then took a few cautious backward steps. Damar hadn't seen him. 

“Father…” Ziyal's voice from around the juncture, soft and sorrowful. “I helped Major Kira and the others escape from the holding cells.”

And then Dukat's. “Do you know what you're saying?”

“Yes, I do. I belong here...Goodbye, father.” A muffled sob, and a few hurried footsteps that stopped short, and then, “I love you.”

Damar stepped around the corner.

“Let's not do anything rash!” Weyoun spurted, hurrying after him.

Dukat whipped around, brows knit in confusion. “Damar-”

“You heard her,” he snapped. “She's a traitor!”

“It would appear so,” said Weyoun, flinching as Damar, and the charged disruptor along with him, shifted in his direction. “However, given the situation, don't you think it would be better if we resolved this on the ship?”

“I'm not going,” Ziyal interrupted, taking a defiant step toward Damar. Though she was clearly terrified, there was something of Major Kira in her eyes. “If you want to kill me, go ahead.”

The image of Damar's finger finding the trigger opened up a crack in the wall Weyoun had built, and everything he'd beaten down, all the power he'd restrained and suffocated for a year burst out of him in a single flash of blue as his hand reached out toward the weapon, containing its fire and filling the air with smoke and the scent of Damar's palms burning as they took the brunt of the blast. He gave a horrid, strangled scream of pain, but didn't drop the weapon; instead, enraged, he lashed out, raising it up and bringing it down in a sideways arc with a crack against Weyoun's skull.

He was unconscious before he hit the ground. 


	2. The Blessed Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where you will start to get lost if you haven't read Path to Paradise, so if you haven't read that one, go back and do that first. Reign From Beneath is also suggested, but not necessary.

He thought he might have woken up before. Perhaps even more than once, but there were no memories. Just a feeling that he had looked up into these lights, heard these voices, and struggled against these restraints. 

This time was different. He was in pain unlike anything he'd ever felt. The Third had been tortured to death, and even that didn't match this feeling, like his veins were on fire and his bones were full of glass. 

He managed to open his eyes, releasing a ragged gasp at the brightness of the room. A Federation doctor was busy at his workstation, back turned. 

Bashir. 

Weyoun ran through his profile in his head, but the details didn't come to him as easily as they should have.

There would be no talking his way out of this.

He needed a way to free himself, a weapon, and an exit route. He ran scenarios as best he could in his foggy state of mind, but it was no use. He'd never make it. His mental map of the station was warped and distorted. There was no way off of Deep Space Nine for him. 

This was the retribution he'd been dreading. 

It felt unfair. But it wasn't, was it? A functional clone would never have hidden the things he'd hidden, wouldn't have prioritized his own comfort and pleasure and self-preservation over his purpose, wouldn't have failed in all the myriad ways he had failed, wouldn't have been captured. 

He had brought humiliation on his entire line, from the First to the last, and there was only one way to prove himself a loyal subject of the Dominion.

It would require one last act of defiance.

Weyoun took a shaking breath and focused on the feeling of that forbidden energy, called it up and focused it. It had never been so easy to control. The restraints went slack, falling away from his wrists and ankles. Rolling over the edge of the biobed felt like swimming against a strong current, and supporting his weight felt all but impossible on his trembling legs, but he  _ would _ stand. He deserved at least that dignity. 

His movement attracted Bashir’s attention; he turned with a puzzled look. 

“You can call for security if you like,” Weyoun slurred. “This will be over before they arrive.”

For no longer than a second, his thoughts raced -- he felt he should pray, but he'd never memorized the prayer for self-termination, had never thought he'd need it. Perhaps Weyoun 6 could add that one to his repertoire.

He took a shaking breath and raised a hand to the juncture of his neck and jaw, pressing his fingertips into the flesh to find the capsule-shaped bump resting against his jugular.

There was nothing there but a fresh scar. 

His termination implant had been removed. 

Bashir looked him up and down with a horribly  _ piteous _ expression. “You really ought to sit down,” he said.

And Weyoun could do little but obey; he was a prisoner, captured by the enemy, and his one means of escape had been cut off. There would be no second attempt.

“What now?” he asked, as much to himself as to Bashir. 

“Now,” he said, bringing over two sample containers and sliding them onto the tray by the biobed, “You tell me what these are and how they work. I know this one,” he indicated the one on the left, “was meant to kill you; I assume that's what you were looking for a moment ago. It nearly did the job, in fact. It was damaged.”

“Damar,” Weyoun spat. “He must have broken the capsule when he knocked me unconscious.”

Bashir shook his head. “That's what I thought at first, before I really started looking at it. That may have been what broke through the casing, but  _ this,” _ he moved the other container forward, “was damaged too, and it was behind the other implant.”

Weyoun stared at the container, and the small, chip-like device inside for a long moment before he spoke. “I don't know what that is,” he said. “It's not a standard implant. It shouldn't have been there.”

“I thought,” Bashir said, “it was a monitoring device. While I was analyzing it, it transmitted a signal, and then another, short bursts, only a few seconds each, fifteen in total, none of which I could make any sense of at all, until I realized, it wasn't communicating with the Dominion.”

He pulled up a file onto the viewscreen -- just a string of numbers, repeated a few times before another began. Weyoun studied them, until it dawned on him what they were. He looked from Bashir to the screen and back, his mind clearing with the shock. “This is what it transmitted?”

Bashir nodded.

“This...this shouldn't be possible. We don't have this technology. It's been  _ theorized, _ but it's not anywhere near being implemented.”

“What are they? I know they're controlling genetic expression, but beyond that…”

Weyoun swallowed thickly. He felt sick to his stomach. He'd seen this before, almost a year ago. Had stashed it away and let it drift out if his memory like a bad dream. The  _ Shi Mar  _ file.

“This one,” he said, stumbling over to the doctor's workstation and pointing at the first sequence, “is signaling the brain to produce a psionic antagonist...but that shouldn't be necessary. Any meaningful psionic ability was weeded out of most lines  _ millennia  _ ago.”

Bashir's eyes narrowed. “Why would the Dominion breed out psionic ability? It seems like it would be useful in the field.”

“Clones with too much psionic expression are unstable,” he said absently, still scanning over the signals. “One in three are defective.”

“Defective, meaning they won't obey orders?” Bashir asked.

Weyoun's heart leapt into his throat when he realized what he'd been doing. He’d let his obliging nature and his scientific mind cloud his better judgement. He'd given valuable information to an enemy.

He staggered back to the biobed with something between a sigh and a sob. “Doctor Bashir,” he said, “if you're after Dominion intelligence, you will just have to look somewhere else.”

 

The afternoon passed, Weyoun falling in and out of a fitful sleep. In between bouts of shooting pain and vivid nightmares, he stared at the sample container that held the unknown implant. There had been a time that it wouldn't have bothered him. If the Founders deemed it necessary to keep certain information to themselves, so be it. There were things his progenitor had been forbidden to discuss, and things he hadn't been allowed to know. Projects that had to be redacted and handed off to another researcher who had the missing pieces. It had never been an issue. Who was he to question the motivations of Gods?

But he couldn't bring himself to dismiss this so easily. He hadn't looked at the other signals for very long, and he didn't fully understand their purpose, but he knew the Vorta genome well enough to understand that they lined up exactly with what he'd seen in the  _ Shi Mar _ file. That his own research had come dangerously close to uncovering these mechanisms, working with no apparent cause, and that he had been suddenly reassigned to diplomacy.

There was a sense of  _ fear _ in those actions, and what did  _ Gods _ have to fear?

He was distracted when he picked up the faint strains of hushed conversation in an adjacent room. He recognized Bashir's voice first.

“--more time. I can get through to him, I know it.”

“I'm sure you can,” said the second voice, lower, melodic. Sisko. “But I don't know how much more time I can give you. Starfleet Command wants to debrief him, and I've run out of excuses to hold them off.”

“How many Dominion operatives have they captured? And how many have given up a single useful bit of intelligence? They've done it their way and failed. And do you want to know why?”

“I  _ know _ why.” Sisko's voice sounded strained, frustrated. “When they interrogate these people, they show them  _ exactly _ what they've been conditioned to expect. I don't like it either, but we can't afford to pacify an enemy that comes in shooting.”

“I don't think we can afford  _ not _ to,” Bashir said, lowering his voice so that even Weyoun had to strain to hear it. “The devices I pulled out of his head...I've never seen anything like the damage that  _ something _ did to them.”

“What kind of damage?”

“There were striations etched into the surface, and residue that tells me it happened  _ after _ they were implanted. It's the sort of thing that happens when inorganic matter is pushed very quickly through time or space.

“I was talking about it with Miles this morning,” Bashir continued, “and he put me in contact with La Forge from the  _ Enterprise. _ La Forge confirmed he'd seen similar damage before, on an android who passed through an Iconian Gateway. Do you remember what our friend in there was working on when we first encountered him?”

Sisko sighed, “The renegade Jem’Hadar and the Iconian Gateway.”

“Sir, if the Dominion has discovered another gateway…”

“I'll see if I can hold the Admirals off for a few more days. But no promises.”

“Thank you.”

Weyoun laughed aloud. Bashir may have been far from the mark, but on his way, he'd brushed right past it. He'd found evidence of something Morau had said to Weyoun when they met in the Cardassian capitol -- that he had somehow moved through time. 

He had written him off as a disturbing, but ultimately inconsequential footnote. A frightening encounter, nothing more. And now, a clueless Federation doctor had groped around in the dark and pulled out proof that everything he'd said was true. Had neatly centered the life of Weyoun Five around a madman's conspiracy theory.

“Do you know,” he said as Bashir entered the room again, “what we call the act of suicide?”

Bashir's face shifted into a kind of patiently exhausted expression. “No idea.”

_ “Yelkuru,” _ he said. “‘The blessed sacrifice’. It's the greatest demonstration of faith one can make. It's expected if we're captured or defective.”

Bashir sank into a chair, threaded his fingers together in front of him, and said, “I believe we just call that 'indoctrination.’”

“It may be a joke to  _ you, _ but--”

Bashir stood suddenly, looking intently at the panel attached to the biobed. “Hold still,” he snapped. 

For a few moments, the room was silent as Bashir’s eyes scanned the readings.

“Do you feel alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Weyoun, baffled.

“No pain?”

“Of course I'm in pain,” he said through gritted teeth. “Your anaesthetics are useless.”

Behind him, the monitors went wild, trilling erratically as the aching pressure in his temples bloomed across his forehead and down into his jaw, his heart fluttered, and all the air rushed out of his lungs.

For a split second, he felt suspended above himself, looking down at his body, wracked with convulsions, Bashir trying to hold him down and pressing a hypospray into his neck. 

Then the fit was gone as quickly as it had come, and he snapped back into himself. 

Through ragged gasps, he managed to speak. “What...was  _ that?” _ he asked.

Bashir was obviously trying to look calm, but his eyes were wide as he said, “I don't know.”


	3. Seven and Five

Julian had been working for twenty hours straight, and he was no closer to diagnosing the strange fits. All he had uncovered so far was that they were going to kill his patient if they didn't let up soon.

Starfleet Command didn't have the expertise to treat him. None of _their_ doctors had ever performed surgery on a Vorta. Julian was uniquely qualified to care for him. If Weyoun would recover, it would be here, on Deep Space Nine.

But Starfleet wanted their prisoner, and unless Julian could establish a rapport and get actionable intelligence, they weren't interested in an enemy’s well-being. They'd trade his life for the smallest advantage without a second thought.

It was too ugly to think about anymore.

He needed a change of scenery and to clear his head, so he shifted his focus to cleaning out his quarters; a daunting task that had slowed to a crawl once he'd found out that the impressive clutter belonged to Weyoun. He'd started picking through the items with careful scrutiny, as if the Vorta's hoard of useless junk might reveal how to make him cooperate. The end result was that he was no closer to either keeping Weyoun from dying in Starfleet custody _or_ clearing his possessions from his quarters when he began to doze on the sofa, a Dominion PADD with a cracked screen -- which he'd found wedged into the narrow gap between the replicator and the wall -- hanging loosely from his hands.

“Not wise to leave your door unlocked, my dear.” The voice at his ear was accompanied by a hand wrapping around his throat.

“If you wanted to get in,” Julian sighed, pulling the neatly-manicured fingers from his neck and interlacing them with his own, “would it _really_ have mattered whether I locked it or not?”

“No,” Garak smiled. “That PADD wouldn't happen to belong to your patient, would it? Not very ethical of you.”

“It's not as if I can make sense of it, anyway,” Julian said. “There’s some sort of anti-translation encryption. Languages never were really my forte. I picked out the word for ‘Founder’ and thought it might be strategic, but the further I get, the more it looks like some kind of devotional. A prayer or something.”

Taking the PADD, Garak made a low, thoughtful noise. “Well,” he said, “I don't know that my Dominionese is any more fluent than yours but…” Garak’s eyes widened slightly, and the corners of his mouth twisted into a smirk. “Oh.”

“What?” Bashir asked.

“This is interesting, but it isn't a devotional. Not...a _religious_ one at any rate.”

Bashir laughed incredulously. “How do you figure? This word, _'weiyaita’_ means 'Founder’, and--”

“Look again.” Garak said. “It makes use of religious imagery, certainly, _kneeling_ before altars and _receiving_ blessings _._ I can see where you got off track -- I don't believe Federation Standard makes use of such opaque euphemisms. But he's not using the divine pronoun, so the subject definitely isn't a Founder, and he's borrowing a few...somewhat vulgar phrases from _Kardasi_ here.”

The tone of Garak's voice, his salacious emphasis, got Julian's attention. “You don't mean...surely you're not saying this is--”

“Sexual?” Garak asked, barely concealing his delight at Julian's horror. “Explicitly. Well, in a roundabout way. And the bilingual wordplay strongly suggests the subject is a male Cardassian.”

“You got that from _this_ text?” Julian asked flatly. “I suppose you can also tell me his height and weight?”

“No,” said Garak, “but I can tell you his race with reasonable certainty.”

Julian almost managed to brush past that comment, secure in the belief that the PADD was irrelevant both militarily and medically, and move the conversation along to any topic that _wasn't_ Weyoun's sex life, but intellectual curiosity got the better of him. _“How_ can you tell that? He doesn't describe--”

“The loanwords he uses for the double entendres,” Garak said. “Specifically, the way he's transliterated them, with these vowel modifications. The flattening of the 'ah’ sound into 'eh’ -- it's a distinctly Ka’radan affectation, and since I doubt he was hearing these particular words in polite conversation…Well, at least that narrows it down. The Ka'radan are a relatively small minority.”

“I don't care who he's sleeping with,” said Julian, shaking his head. “They’re taking him today, unless we give them a good reason not to. He won't talk to Captain Sisko, and he just _stares_ at Odo. I'm the only one left with even the slightest chance at getting any useful information out of him.” Seeing the wounded look on Garak's face, he added, _“Without_ committing a war crime.”

“Fortunately for you,” Garak said, “this _is_ useful information.  The Dominion’s top man in the Alpha Quadrant had an affair, and only wrote about it in terms his people wouldn't understand, on a PADD no one _else_ could read. And hid it well enough that this is the first _I'm_ hearing about it.”

Julian shook his head. “An affair may be covert, but it's hardly _intelligence.”_

“I disagree,” said Garak. “It’s practically written in code, he used a military encryption to conceal it, and most importantly, in spite of every indication that he considered this affair tantamount to treason, he felt strongly enough about it that he _had_ to write this...journal or love-poem or whatever it may be. I’ve never written about _you.”_

Laughing indignantly, Julian said, “No?”

“Of course not!” he said with a suspicious tilt of his head. _“You_ haven't... _have you?”_

“No!” Julian retorted, a little too quickly. “Not _lately._ I mean at first-- don't change the subject. How will this make him cooperate?”

“It's a crack in his armor. All you have to do is apply a little pressure and see what--”

Garak stopped mid-sentence with a look as if he'd just put on his shoe only to find out the cat had left a dead mouse inside.

“What’s the matter?” Julian asked.

“I know exactly who this is written about,” he began with a grimace, “He’s described in such flattering terms that I didn't make the connection. Have you ever heard the way Ziyal’s father pronounces her name?”

Julian's eyebrows raised a fraction. “I assume that's the 'Ka’radan affectation’?”

“The very same. Now, what do you suppose a regime like the Dominion would think of a high-ranking official becoming romantically entangled with the single most vital asset to their current strategy in the Alpha Quadrant?”

“That he'd been compromised,” Julian nodded.

 _“There's_ a place to start.”

 

Nine days. Damar had been inside this damned cell for nine days. All things considered, it wasn't so bad, but the _silence_ of it was getting to him. Dukat was in the other cell, but he hadn't spoken a word to him. Not after what happened.

But it wasn't just the isolation -- the sleeplessness, the headache, the way his heart seemed to beat in jumps and starts, stuttering under his breastbone.

He told himself it was just the thin mattress that kept him awake, the bright, artificial lights that made him feel like someone was digging around in his skull, the strain of captivity, the uncertainty of his future that kept spurring his heart into a sprint.

If he _had_ been hitting the bottle a little too frequently, if it was finally taking a toll on his body, well, that was minor compared to the problem of being _here,_ in the custody of the Federation.

Just as he had finally managed to fall into a fitful sleep, the sound of the door sliding open shocked him awake with a jarring palpitation. Two security officers, one Bajoran and one Federation, escorted Weyoun in, his hands cuffed.

So he hadn't killed him. Too bad.

Although, from the looks of him, he'd come close to it. His hair was wild, his eyes sunken, his skin almost transparent over a patchwork of broken blood vessels. He looked as if he could barely stand.

The Bajoran guard pressed a button on the panel, opening up a small rectangular hole in the forcefield of Damar's cell.

“Hands,” she said sharply, producing a set of cuffs from her belt.

“Put him in the other cell,” said Damar.

“Well, just because you asked...” the guard replied, her face full of mock-amiability. “No. Now give me your hands. I won't ask again.”

Grudgingly, he lifted his wrists and presented them to be cuffed, taking a seat on the cot as the forcefield blinked out and they pushed Weyoun over the threshold.

“Don't worry,” said the guard. “the three of you are shipping out today for long-term detainment. It'll be _years_ before you have to worry about sharing a cell again.”

A few shrill beeps, and the field came up again, along with another field dividing the cell down the middle. The security officers removed both their cuffs, and then the room was silent again, except his cell was now half its former size, and he and the Vorta were staring one another down from opposite ends.

“You look terrible,” Weyoun remarked after a long silence.

“So do you,” Damar bit back.

“You _did_ try to kill me.”

Laughing, Damar leaned back against the wall. “Perhaps you shouldn't have gotten in the way.”

Before Weyoun could take the bait, another voice from the cell behind him said, “You're lucky he did.”

And that grated on Damar's already-frayed nerves.

“I’m stuck in here with your little Dominion lap-dog,” Damar snapped. “I wouldn’t call that _lucky._ ”

“If you _had_ killed my daughter, Damar, there wouldn't be enough left of you to put in a cell.”

“I see,” he said. “I suppose if you valued loyalty, you wouldn’t have gotten into bed with the Dominion in the first place.”

Damar stared into Weyoun's face, unblinking as he said it, just to watch him squirm. At least _he_ was ashamed.

“Careful, old friend,” said Dukat, venomous and low. “Remember who was by my side the whole time.”

Before Damar could make a rebuttal, a squadron of station security, Bajoran military, and Starfleet officers filed through the door, weapons drawn. Kira emerged from the rear of the group.

“With me,” she said, lowering the forcefields. “Come on, hurry up.”

Once they were out of their cells, the three of them exchanged wary glances, momentarily reunited by the circumstances to engage in silent debate. _Do we cooperate or fight?_

Weyoun shook his head subtly. Damar could almost hear his voice saying, _Not here. Too far from an escape route._

They marched along the eerily-silent corridors, but _not_ toward the docking ring.

“Excuse me, Major?” Weyoun said. “Where are we going?”

“Stop talking and move.”

 

Although he couldn't fathom why they'd been brought to ops, Weyoun was grateful for an advance look at the transport ship, which loomed on the central viewscreen. He took in its size. Small for a prison transport. Not a large complement, and Federation security was lax compared to what any of the three of them were used to.

In that moment, his mind was clear enough, for the first time since he'd woken up, to run a projection in his head. If they could escape custody and secure a few weapons aboard the transport, the likelihood of success was roughly thirty percent. Not _good_ odds, but better than the odds of escaping a maximum-security holding facility.

As he started to mentally map the vessel by its class and model, he noticed that it was drifting, turning on its axis, its hull fractured.

“I can't get a lock on the crew,” the engineer, O’Brien, said. “Some sort of interference.”

“They're coming around for another pass,” said the Trill at the auxiliary sensor array. “If anybody’s got another plan, now's the time.”

“Weapons status?” Sisko asked.

“Still offline.”

“Then you'd better get that lock, Mister O’Brien.”

Away in the distance, the faint glint of a second ship, coming in for the attack.

“Got it!”

“Good. Get them out of there.”

“Yes, sir.”

The voices of the crew faded out as Weyoun saw the other ship -- _his_ ship -- bank into view onscreen.

It was close enough to pick up his short-range beacon. As quickly as he could without drawing attention, he squeezed the implant on the inside of his wrist.

“Mister O'Brien, where are they?”

“I don't know! I _had_ them!”

“Sir, the Dominion ship is--”

The room went quiet as the _Tenak'talar_ opened fire on the transport.

There was a flash, and then nothing but cloud of twisted debris and, briefly, roiling flame. The shock rippled through the station a moment later.

“I'm picking up a transporter beacon!”

“Escape pods?”

“No,” said the Trill. “It’s coming from inside the station.”

“They're locking onto it!”

“Shut it down! Now!”

The air began to shimmer around Weyoun as he tilted his head back with a beatific smile. In moments, he'd be at the helm of his ship.

He'd go home.

Dukat shoved past him to the nearest console, tapping out a frantic sequence and swatting away the officers who tried to wrestle him from it.

The beam evaporated.

 _“What did you do?!”_ Weyoun snarled, advancing on him. The guards were startled by Weyoun's sudden burst of strength and recoiled, but Dukat caught his raised hand and held him still.

“They're _not_ coming to save you,” he said.

There was something about the way he was looking at him, the certainty in his eyes, an awful pity.

Weyoun glanced to the ship on the screen, hovering just above the midline of the station, and, slowly, he understood.

How could he have been so stupid?

“They're hailing us,” said O'Brien.

“Onscreen.”

Dread stretched out a single moment as Weyoun looked back to Dukat, bargaining against the truth.

He didn't want to look at the face on the viewscreen, didn't want to hear the voice on the comm.

He knew that it meant inevitable death.

He drew a shaking breath and turned to look himself in the eye.

 _“Morva,”_ he said, addressing his successor by his iteration. “Somewhat presumptuous of you to assume my responsibilities while I'm still quite capable of fulfilling them myself.”

 _“Tava,”_ the clone corrected. “Unfortunately, the Sixth inherited your defect through the memetic interface. He had to be put down. As _you_ should have been by now, if we're discussing your _responsibilities._ Which brings me to my offer: Captain Sisko, if you scan the holding area of this ship you'll find twenty human lifesigns.”

Sisko looked to the Trill, who nodded. “The crew of the prison transport.”

“Precisely.”

“I assume you want something for them?”

Seven smiled. “A simple exchange: my prisoners for yours.”

“I'll have to consult with Starfleet,” Sisko replied icily.

Seven glanced somewhere off screen, and his eyes narrowed as he swept a hand over the chronometer panel. “You have forty-eight hours,” he said. “After that, my offer becomes less generous.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, intrigue, drama, and even more Damar.


	4. Machinations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised more Damar this time, but it made more sense to split this chapter in two. The Damar stuff is next time.

While Sisko had conferred with his superiors, another fit had sent Weyoun back to medical. That had been hours ago, and now all he could do was stare at the ceiling of the infirmary and wait for them to decide his fate.

Bashir had gone to bed, leaving Weyoun alone and unsupervised, but the will to self-terminate had long since worked its way out of his system in favor of anger at having been abandoned by his people and his gods. Five centuries of loyal service, and he was still just as disposable as anyone else.

He had just begun to drift off when a peculiar noise from the corridor pricked up his ears, a muffled whirring sound, and then a hollow thump. The door slid open a moment later, and Dukat stepped through, the human guard’s feet visible on the floor just behind him.

“How did you escape the holding cell?” Weyoun asked warily.

“I didn't,” he said, approaching the bedside and removing Weyoun's restraints. “Captain Sisko had me escorted to my office for questioning. When he sent me back, I overpowered the guards and took their weapons.”

“And how exactly do you plan to get off of this station?”

Dukat took his hands and pressed a tender kiss to the back of one. “I'm sorry for this,” he said. “But I’ve reconsidered my options, and I don't intend to remain a prisoner of the Federation.”

Before Weyoun could begin to work out what he meant by that, his grip had tightened around Weyoun's wrist, his fingers pressing into the implant.

“What--”

 

Confused as he had been, seeing the bridge of the _Tenak'talar_ clarified things.

“I must say,” Tava said as the transporter beam faded out, “Of all of you, I think I least expected _you_ to be the one to come to your senses, Dukat. I owe you an apology.”

Weyoun didn't take his eyes off of Dukat. Against all his better instincts, Weyoun had grown to trust him, and this was the outcome: being turned over to his successor and killed.

Maybe he _was_ defective. Maybe he deserved this. After all, he’d had ample opportunity to avoid it, but his pathological affection for Dukat had, time and time again, taken precedence over the good of the Dominion.

“Put him with the hostages.” Weyoun whipped around at the familiar voice. _She_ , not Tava, was wearing the headset.

The sting of being replaced was somewhat mitigated by the fact that his successor was being kept on such a short leash that he wasn't even in command of his own ship.

“Kilana,” he said coldly. “Odd that they chose _you_ for a post-defect audit, considering your history.”

She was good at hiding anger, far better than Weyoun could ever hope to be, but he knew all her tells, and _that_ remark had hit a nerve. She simply nodded to Itan’krava, who took him roughly by the arm and escorted him off the bridge.

“Why not kill me now?” Weyoun asked as soon as they were out of earshot. “Why hold me with the hostages?”

Itan’krava’s face betrayed that he didn't exactly agree with that decision. “Dukat had certain _conditions_ for your retrieval.”

“What conditions?”

Sneering, Itan'krava shook his head. “No more questions.”

They walked the corridors in silence until they reached the brig, which was unusually cramped. A Dominion warship was never intended to hold more than a handful of prisoners -- the twenty crewmen of the Federation transport ship were packed tight, sitting on the floor almost shoulder to shoulder.

Four Jem’Hadar trained their weapons on the hostages as Itan’krava lifted the forcefield and shoved Weyoun through. Two officers grudgingly made room for him on the floor, eyeing him suspiciously as the Jem'Hadar filed out.

“Well,” Weyoun began. “I'm sure you all were discussing your escape plan? I'd be interested to hear it.”

 

“Do you remember everything your predecessor does?” Dukat asked. The clone’s jaw tightened, although his gaze remained fixed on his console. He had yet to look Dukat in the eye.

“His memetic profile was...somewhat problematic,” he said. “I remember some things, but it was necessary to censor others to ensure my viability. I have nothing at all from the past six months.”

Dukat smiled and leaned against the console, inserting himself firmly into the clone's personal space. “That's too bad…”

“Excuse me,” Kilana interjected. Her tone of voice was like someone chastising an unruly child, and Dukat felt an involuntary little twitch of his jaw. “I think it would be best if we changed the subject.”

Dukat locked eyes with her for a moment before smiling and raising his hands in surrender. “Alright,” he said, and chose an empty station to occupy, one where his body would block Kilana’s sightline, inserting a chip into the console's port.

 

Weyoun was always impressed at the ingenuity of Starfleet officers. Since they'd been imprisoned, they had figured out how to deactivate the forcefield and managed to turn their combadges into an improvised weapon -- a deadly one at that -- and, with a little input from Weyoun on the best exit route, they were ready to make their escape less than an hour after he'd arrived. He had his head inside the wall panel for the door and was seconds from disabling the locking mechanism when the entire ship shuddered and went dark, only the dim red glow of a single emergency light illuminating the room.

“I'm assuming _you_ didn't do that?” one of the officers asked, his voice too loud for Weyoun's comfort in the absence of the ship's hum.

Weyoun shook his head. “I'm afraid not. And keep your voice down.”

“What are the chances the guards leave their posts?” another officer asked.

“They won't,” said Weyoun. “But there won't be a corridor patrol until power is restored. Right now those two, and four at the shuttle bay are all we need to get past. That is, _if_ we can get out of this room, which I'm not entirely sure we--”

“Stand back -- theta formation,” the captain hissed, wedging the rigged up badge into the narrow gap beneath the door.

The badge chirped once, and one of the officers pulled Weyoun behind the others just before it exploded. Most of the debris blew outward, into the corridor, but a good deal landed where he'd just been standing.

As soon as the dust cleared, the captain, Douglas, ducked briefly through the four-foot hole where the bottom half of the doors had been. “Two down,” she said, tossing a disruptor to the man who'd pulled Weyoun away from the blast and shouldering the other. “Four to go.”

Weyoun and the Starfleet crew filed one-by-one through the doors’ jagged remains and made their way through the ship’s dim corridors. Weyoun occasionally whispered directions to Douglas, and within minutes, they were around the corner from the shuttle bay, pressed against the walls in groups of two or three and nearly unbreathing as Douglas communicated her plan of attack via a series of hand signals. Weyoun had ended up a short distance from Douglas and the first officer, and the single emergency light at the nearest juncture afforded him only enough visibility to see those two -- the rest of the crew had disappeared into the darkness. He could faintly hear the slight whirring of the pumps that fed the White into the Jem'Hadar's veins. Four of them, just as he'd expected.

But then, more distantly, he heard several sets of fast-approaching footsteps. He tried to get Douglas’ attention, but she was focused on the juncture, ready to give the signal to attack, and he didn't dare take a step towards her and risk making a noise with the Jem'Hadar so close.

He gestured frantically back into the darkness where the rest of the crew must have been, pointing toward the direction of the sound, but if they saw him and interpreted his signals, they were too slow to act. A light at the end of the corridor blinked into life, illuminating the four approaching figures.

“Drop your weapons,” Tava ordered from just behind Dukat, who, along with two more Jem'Hadar, held disruptors at the ready, aimed at Weyoun and the Federation crew. “Put your hands where we can see them.”

As the crew coalesced into a single group, herded along the corridor, Douglas’ eyes flicked between the three armed enemies in front, and the four behind whose attention had been drawn by Tava's voice. They were clearly outgunned, and soon to be out-manned if the sounds of a fight brought more Jem'Hadar. After a moment, she slowly lowered the stolen weapon, and her first officer followed suit.

“Kill them.”

“Wait a moment,” Dukat objected sharply. “Those weren't our terms.”

Tava shot him an incredulous look. “We have nowhere to hold them. What exactly do you--”

He was cut short by a soft chime. Weyoun recognized the sound.

It was a timer.

Faster than Weyoun's eyes could follow in the low light, Dukat shoved Tava into one Jem’Hadar, knocking the disruptor from his hands and throwing him momentarily off balance, and fired on the other. Douglas and the first officer didn't hesitate to take their weapons up again, and between the three of them, they easily dispatched the remaining Jem’Hadar.

Weyoun was surprised to see Dukat pull a Starfleet combadge from his belt.

“Captain Sisko,” he said into the badge. “I believe you'll find that the Dominion ship has lowered its shields."


	5. All's Fair

Following their escape from the _Tenak'talar,_  everything began to move at a dizzying pace. Bashir had only just finished checking Weyoun and the rescued crew over in the _Defiant's_ medbay when they docked at Deep Space Nine, and from there, Sisko had immediately ushered Weyoun and Dukat into the wardroom, where Damar, several Starfleet admirals, and two defected Cardassian legates — both of whom Weyoun knew the Dominion had presumed dead months before — sat around the table.

“Have a seat, gentlemen,” the admiral nearest to the center of the table — Ross, if memory served, though Weyoun couldn't recall a single detail of his psychographic profile — said, glancing down at his PADD. “Dukat, myself and Captain Sisko are aware of our agreement and the joint Federation-Cardassian mission that took place as a result of that arrangement, but for the room at large, let's go over the details.”

He gestured to Dukat, who leaned back in his chair. “Until the unlawful occupation of Cardassia by the Dominion is ended,” he said. Weyoun bristled on instinct at the word _occupation_ in reference to the Dominion's activities. “I have agreed to assist the Federation and its allies in their efforts to end the Dominion incursion into this quadrant by providing intelligence on current military operations, objectives, and any other relevant information, excluding any intelligence which may compromise the security of an independent Cardassian government after the Dominion has surrendered its territories.”

“In exchange for immunity,” Ross added with a challenging tilt of the head. “Tell us about your assignment on the Dominion ship.”

“The ship had taken the crew of a Federation transport hostage.”

“This is the _Atlantic,_ the same transport that was set to take you, your adjutant, and the Vorta ambassador to Earth for arraignment?”

“Yes. Federation personnel detected the Dominion flagship _Tenak'talar_ approaching. They anticipated that the Dominion had sent it to retrieve us, and so Captain Sisko had us escorted to Operations, as the crew of that ship were familiar with the station's layout and would have known where we were being held. The _Tenak'talar_ fired on the Federation ship and captured its crew. Weyoun activated a distress beacon which would have allowed them to transport him aboard as well, but I initiated a modification I had installed in the station's defenses that is capable of dispersing Dominion transporter beams.”

“And why had you installed that specific program?”

Dukat hesitated with a glance in Weyoun's direction. “It was one of many covert precautions I took against potential Dominion aggression.”

“And it was after this that Captain Sisko arranged to negotiate your asylum agreement?”

“Correct,” said Dukat. “His Chief of Engineering had been experimenting with a device which could control a Dominion ship's computer with a predetermined set of commands. However, he wasn't able to make it function remotely, so someone with access to the ship had to install it. Captain Sisko proposed the plan to me and to Starfleet Command, which approved the request. I sent a coded transmission to the _Tenak'talar_ offering to capture Weyoun, who had been declared a defector, on the condition that he be left alive.”

A different admiral spoke up. “That's unusual for the Dominion, isn't it? To leave a so-called 'defective’ Vorta clone alive? Why did they grant that request?”

“There is certain intelligence that the Dominion doesn't record,” said Dukat. “It's only passed from one clone to another. As I understand it, a defective clone complicates that process, and once a defective clone is produced, it isn't always possible to produce another viable one. Weyoun was privy to a great deal of that intelligence, and the loss of his memories would have meant the loss of information that was vital to their strategy.”

“I was under the impression that they _had_ managed to create a viable clone.”

“They seemed to be worried that, if they killed _my_ Weyoun, I might interfere with _theirs._ As soon as I was sure he wouldn't be killed, I used Weyoun's beacon to transport to the _Tenak'talar,_ where I distracted the clone and his handler and installed the device. After twenty minutes, the device disabled the ship's power, and I set a timer to alert me when the emergency power supply to the shields should have run out. Shortly after that, the hostages escaped the _Tenak'talar's_ brig. We located them near the shuttle bay, and when the power to the shields failed, myself and the hostages who had procured weapons overpowered the Jem’Hadar and contacted the _Defiant,_ which had followed under cloak at a distance.”

Ross took a moment to pull something up on his PADD. “Can you tell me,” he said, “why, if you are resolved to assist the Federation in its efforts against the Dominion invasion of the Alpha Quadrant, you have _insisted,_ as a condition of your asylum agreement, that a man who you yourself described as the de facto _leader_ of that invasion be allowed to sit in on this meeting?”

“Because the Dominion wants him dead,” Dukat said simply. “And I don't. I would like to formally ask the Federation to grant him the same arrangement extended to Damar, myself, and other former Cardassian personnel.”

The admirals exchanged glances before Ross spoke again. “That depends entirely on whether he agrees to release unique intelligence to Starfleet Command concerning Dominion operations.”

“I agree,” said Weyoun, almost before the admiral had finished speaking. “I renounce my status as a subject of the Dominion and-” he paused, unsure if he really could go on, but after a moment, he found his voice again. After all, they had thrown him away without a second thought — why shouldn't he do the same? “And my loyalty to the Founders.”

For the following hour, he outlined the Dominion's strategy, the locations of critical assets — auxiliary hatcheries, cloning facilities, Ketracel White production and storage sites — and an overview of the intelligence they had gathered concerning the Federation and its allies.

The gravity of what he had done didn't fully wash over him until after he'd been dismissed -- another debriefing scheduled for the following day, but no longer a prisoner.

He had absolutely nothing to do. Nothing to plan for, no duties to attend to, no men to oversee. Not even captivity to escape from, since he was now a guest of the Federation — the first Dominion refugee in two thousand years.

He ducked down a little-used corridor to lean against the wall and try to right his breathing, which had quickened into panicked gasps. It was only then that he noticed that Dukat had been following a few places behind him. The look of concern on his face was humiliating, but at least he spared Weyoun the indignity of asking questions — he just gathered him up and squeezed him so tightly to his chest that Weyoun had no choice but to breathe in time with him, slowing to meet his deep, steady pace.

He didn't doubt that the affectionate gesture was motivated more by Dukat's savior complex than any genuine concern for his well being, but the result was the same: his breath, his pulse, and his thoughts gradually slowed to a reasonable pace.

“You should have stayed,” Weyoun murmured into his shoulder before pulling back and glancing down the corridor, more out of habit than any remaining concern for discretion or either of their reputations. “Kept your position, your power, your influence.”

“I thought about it,” said Dukat frankly.

Weyoun swallowed around a question he was unsure he really wanted answered. “What would you have done with me?”

“Paraded you around,” Dukat smiled, “in front of your replacement and his handler, showed them both how much better I can bring you to heel.”

“I...wish I thought you were joking,” Weyoun shuddered, rubbing away the headache that was blooming behind his eyes. “But I suppose it doesn't matter, does it?”

“No,” said Dukat. “I don't think I could have worked with that woman, anyway.”

“Kilana?” Weyoun asked. “She's not usually so unpleasant. I'm sure this whole situation is very difficult for her. Her third iteration — Oh.”

Weyoun gripped his head in both hands, his knees giving out from under him at the sudden burst of pain at his temples. Dukat caught him under the arms and steadied him.

“What is it?” he asked urgently, searching Weyoun's face.

His vision faded out, and then slowly back in. Just the ceiling of the corridor for a moment, and voices chattering, far away and incomprehensible.

A few faces, in shadow, from above, and a pain that vibrated through every nerve, danced along his synapses like a flickering flame.

He thought he might be back in the infirmary, but every time he tried to take in the room, it warped and bent around his vision, just out of the reach of his comprehension. It might have been hours or days. Then, the searing pain swallowed everything.

 

Damar slipped into the infirmary in the early evening, when he was sure Bashir would still be there, but no one else he didn't want overhearing his business. Weyoun would be there, there was no avoiding that, but from everything Damar had heard, he wouldn't have the wits about him to care.

“I'll be with you in a moment,” called Bashir from beside the biobed where Weyoun lay, groaning softly, his eyes glazed over and staring into the empty air. Bashir pressed a hypospray to his arm, and he slowly fell silent and still.

“What's wrong with him?” Damar asked as Bashir brought over a small plastic cup containing today's ration of medication — three small capsules that Federation medicine dictated Damar couldn't be trusted to take without Bashir or one of his staff looking over his shoulder.

Bashir's mouth thinned thoughtfully. “According to every test I've run?” he said as he ran a small tricorder over Damar's chest. “Nothing. Hm…”

His brow creased and his eyes narrowed at the tricorder's screen.

“What?” Damar asked impatiently.

“Nothing too alarming,” said Bashir. “But you're not going to like it. Your heart rate and temperature are higher than I'd like, especially given that the medication you're on should be _lowering_ them. I'm going to keep you under observation until tomorrow morning.”

Shaking his head, Damar replied, “I feel fine.”

It wasn't _exactly_ the truth. He felt like his chest was full of sand and he couldn't remember what it was like to _not_ have a splitting headache, but it was no worse than he'd felt for nearly two weeks. He was in withdrawal, and if it hadn't killed him yet, he doubted it was going to.

Bashir, predictably, didn't take that for an answer.

“You can take that bed there,” he said, indicating the biobed next to Weyoun's.

And then he walked out. As if there was no more to discuss.

Damar stood for a moment, considering the door. It was probably locked from the outside, but that was a minor inconvenience at most. However, he was certain more substantial inconveniences would follow if he left against the doctor's orders.

Exhaling through clenched teeth, he sank onto the edge of the biobed and glanced over at Weyoun, who was stirring slightly, but obviously senseless. At least he had that small blessing. If he'd been locked in a room with a _conscious_ Weyoun, he would've ended up back in custody.

He leaned forward, closer to the Vorta's face and allowed himself a moment of bitterness as he remembered how this creature had enthralled Dukat from the moment he set foot on the _Naprem,_ had preyed upon his weaknesses, had pulled the strings until Dukat had given him all of Cardassia. And Damar had sat by, done his best to mitigate the damage where he could, and where he couldn't, he had ignored it, bitten his tongue, deferred to Dukat's judgement, even when he refused to see that the Vorta's ulterior motives.

It would have been infuriating enough if their entanglement had been purely political, but Dukat's physical obsession with Weyoun had made it all the more nauseating — how many mornings had he come to Dukat's quarters on the _Naprem,_ on the _Tenak'talar,_ on the station, only to find Weyoun scurrying away? How many times had he overheard their liasons through a too-thin wall? And how many times had he warned Dukat that it was clouding his judgement? And where had it led them? Their people, under Dominion rule, the tide of the war turning against them, and themselves at the mercy of the Federation. He hoped Bashir never found whatever was wrong with Weyoun, that he'd die in this infirmary, and his replacement would stay firmly on his own side.

Just as he had nearly worked himself up into a fury, the Vorta's eyes fluttered open, glassy and dazed, but oddly bright, as if a light was gathering behind them, blooming in the dimness of the room.

Not _as if._ Damar realized with a start that Weyoun's eyes, really _were_ glowing with a strange, blue-violet light, and it was increasing in intensity. Within seconds, his skin took on a faint red luminescence.

His last run-in with Weyoun's telekenesis told him he needed to move, _now._ He managed to stagger back before the blast hit him — Weyoun arched up with a strangled cry, and at the same instant, the energy that had built up within his body burst forth in a violent shockwave that rattled the walls of the infirmary and laid Damar out flat on his back on the floor in between the beds.

He scrambled for the door — whatever _that_ had been, he had no desire to be in the room if it happened again — but before he was halfway across the infirmary, the cabinets and drawers on the opposite wall suddenly flung themselves open all at once, their contents shooting across the room, including a scalpel which flew within millimeters of Damar's left cheek. He turned to follow its path through the air and into Weyoun's outstretched hand. He was upright now, though he looked as though he might collapse any second. His hand shook as he sank the blade deep into the flesh of his wrist.

 _Of course,_ thought Damar. The Federation had taken his termination implant.

He wanted to stay exactly where he stood and watch him bleed out, and he hated whatever nobler part of him wouldn't allow it.

Damar crossed the room in three long strides, catching the hand that held the scalpel and pulling it free. Weyoun's flesh put up more resistance than it should have, and there was a wet _pop_ as the exiting blade brought with it a small, round object.

Weyoun had cut out his security implant.

Damar picked it up between his thumb and forefinger, and immediately let out a startled shout. Where the implant touched his skin, a sensation like thousands of shards of broken glass spread up his fingertips up into his elbow and shoulder, all the way into the base of his skull.

“I think,” Weyoun said raggedly as Damar threw the implant to the floor, clutching his wrist in a vain attempt to stem the bleeding, “my successor may still be trying to kill me.”


	6. Red Alert

The station was quiet when Ziyal slipped off of the transport and made her way to her quarters, exhausted and longing to collapse onto her own bed and sleep for at least twelve hours. When she raised the lights however, it was clear that would have to remain a fantasy for the time being. Nerys was waiting for her on the sofa, a challenging expression on her face.

“You know, when I noticed you’d left the station, I  _ hoped  _ you were just visiting Bajor,” she started. “But then I saw that transport to Prophet’s Landing on the departure logs. Coincidentally, there was also a Cardassian transport visiting Prophet’s Landing yesterday.”

“From the Institute of Art,” Ziyal interrupted. “I was visiting a friend-”

“Irya Kovat?” Nerys asked.

“Yes. She brought me some of my paintings that-”

“A member of a fledgling dissident group based out of the Institute. And you just happened to meet up with her the day after the Federation receives a goldmine of Dominion intelligence?”

“You, of all people-”

“Should what?” Nerys challenged. “Should understand? I do.  _ Of course _ I do, but if Starfleet knew about it, if I knew about it, the Dominion could have figured it out just as easily. What do you think might have happened if they did?”

“They  _ didn't,” _ said Ziyal, a little too harshly. She took a breath before she continued, reminded herself that Nerys’ particularly emphatic method of debate wasn't meant to be as harping or condescending as it felt. “I took precautions. I didn't travel under my own name, I stayed in a crowd, and I—” 

Ziyal stopped suddenly when the door chime rang.

“Come in,” she said, with an apologetic glance toward Nerys as her father came through the door.

“Ziyal—oh, hello, Major.”

“Dukat,” Nerys acknowledged him coldly. “I don't suppose you  _ knew  _ about Ziyal's little excursion?”

Ziyal cringed. It was bad enough when Nerys and her father fought, but she could see the temporary truce taking shape, an unholy alliance based on their mutual overbearing protectiveness, and that was somehow worse.

“Excursion?” he asked dangerously.

“Irya met me at Prophets’ Landing,” she admitted. “There's a group based out of the Institute who are gathering intelligence about the Dominion and its operations.”

“And you thought you'd  _ join _ them?” Everything — his tone, the tilt of his head, the incredulous expression on his face — told her he was no happier than Nerys about her involvement. 

The door chiming for a second time was a welcome distraction from the two of them staring her down, at least until she called for the visitor to come in and Garak walked through, and the room suddenly became a powder keg. Either he would join them in dressing her down, or he would take her side, and neither option would work out in her favor.

Garak's eyes flicked over each occupant of the room in turn.

“Well,” he said, turning to Ziyal, “you'll have to tell me  _ all _ about this later, I'm afraid. Dukat, I was actually looking for you. A word in private, if you don't mind?”

Ziyal's father shot her a look as he followed Garak into the hall that told her the matter was far from resolved.

 

“What's the verdict?” Damar asked as Weyoun reentered from the exam room where Bashir had taken him several hours before. He was walking and lucid, at least, which was an improvement, but he still looked as though he might collapse any second.

“Some sort of sonic weapon,” he said. “It exploited the structure of my security implant, focused and channeled the high-frequency sound waves into my nervous system. It's genius, but it's not a standard tactic. Too many refusals to self-terminate lately, I suppose.”

“The Tenak'talar got here five days ago,” said Damar. “You were fainting before that.”

“Yes, well,” Weyoun with an oddly tight-lipped laugh. “I'm very much still dying, just not quite as fast. Doctor Bashir seems to think that the implant he removed has something to do with it, but he can't seem to find a way to stop it, so...nothing to be done but make me comfortable. The next fit I have will probably be the last.” He cleared his throat. “Would you mind if we changed the subject? I'd rather not dwell on that.”

Getting to his feet, Damar helped him into his bed. “I got my marching orders from Starfleet,” he said. “As soon as I'm cleared from the concussion you gave me, they're sending me back in.”

Weyoun shot him a skeptical look. “There's a decent chance they'll kill you instead of risking another situation like they had with Dukat.”

“I don't think so,” he reasoned. “They'll search me, interrogate me, but who else have they got now? Broca?” He gave a sharp laugh. “He's a coward. He'd turn on them in a second if he had to to save his own skin and they know it. If I come in with a neat little package of Federation intelligence, they won't lay a hand on me.”

“For your sake, I hope that's true.”

Weyoun shifted. Damar could almost see the question in his face. “Dukat's staying here,” he said. “For...obvious reasons, I don't know anything about his assignment, but I know he's not leaving. They gave him quarters on the station.” A question of him own swam around below the surface for a moment before he let it out. “Why do  _ you _ care?”

Weyoun swallowed and let his head fall back into the pillows with a sigh. He examined the ceiling as if he might the answer there. Instead, he asked, “Do you remember Tenek?”

“NCO, about thirty, bad teeth, couldn't keep his mouth shut, transferred postings a few months after the incorporation?” asked Damar.

“Just before that,” said Weyoun, “he cornered me in a briefing room, when I didn't have a security escort. Apparently, his brief stay Kama’ara gave him the wrong impression of my...occupation. I intended to report the incident — under Dominion law, he would have been executed — but I never got the chance.” Weyoun paused with a soft laugh. “Dukat saw the bruises on my thighs and knew they weren't  _ his. _ I told him what had happened, he left and came back a few hours later, and the next morning, Tenek had been suddenly transferred...although, he never made it to his new posting.”

“So you feel you owe him for that?”

“No, not really,” Weyoun said. “Tenek would have died one way or another. Dukat knew that, but he wasn't content to leave him to a Dominion executioner. And in the past few days, he's protected me from both the Dominion  _ and  _ the Federation. I suppose I feel if he's going to be so concerned for my well-being, I ought to be concerned for his.”

“He  _ adores _ you,” Damar gritted out. 

Weyoun shot him a strange look, as if he'd heard the unsaid,  _ and you don't deserve it. _

“You have to understand,” Weyoun said softly, “that sort of affection isn't permitted for my people.”

Damar raised a brow. “Neither is cutting out your implants and defecting to the Federation.”

“I know,” Weyoun nodded. “But—”

At that moment, alarms rang out, emergency lights flashing as the PA system called out the red alert.

 

“Well?” Dukat asked as the door shut behind him. 

Garak gave a tight smile and a cursory glance up and down the corridor. “This is a courtesy I normally wouldn't extend,” he said. “But under the circumstances...Weyoun is awake. Doctor Bashir is seeing him now. I happened to overhear the prognosis. I'm no expert, but it sounded like if you want to speak with him, you had better go now.”

Dukat's jaw tightened as the implication filtered through to him. Garak may have hated him, but knowing what he knew from the broken PADD, the way Dukat's eyes bored into his face, searching desperately for a lie, for any evidence that what he'd said was wrong, was unpleasant to watch.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly.

As Dukat turned and started down the corridor, it occurred to Garak that he might hold Julian responsible for the Vorta's inevitable death, and so he followed at a distance, fingers twitching over the concealed razor he kept on his belt — so good for removing loose threads.

To get to the infirmary from Ziyal's quarters, they had to cross the Promenade. Dukat reached the end of a row of observation ports just as Garak crossed in front of the start of it, and they both stopped in their tracks at the brilliant flash of light that bloomed out in the distance. 

The wormhole had opened.

A moment later, the red alert sounded as a small ship issued from its mouth — a Dominion scout ship.

 

“Sir, they're hailing us,” O'Brien called out.

“Open a channel.”

The inside of the scout appeared on the screen, but it immediately struck Sisko as odd. No Jem'Hadar visible at any of the stations, no one at all other than a single Vorta at the helm — formidable-looking, none of the species’ usual fragility, none of that vacancy around the eyes.

“Captain Sisko,” he said. “If you wouldn't mind bringing Weyoun up to Operations?”

“I suppose,” Sisko said, keeping his tone level, “you just want to  _ talk _ to him?”

“Not at all,” said the Vorta. “I want to bring him back to my compound on Kurill Prime, where I can heal the damage done by your doctor's inexpert removal of his implants. But, we'll start with talking. If you let him see me, he will vouch that I'm not a part of the Dominion.”

Sisko discreetly gestured for the ensign at his right to comply. “You're on a Dominion ship,” he said. “Wearing a Dominion uniform.”

“Well, I'm not stupid, Captain,” he laughed. “If I'm going to operate in Dominion territory, I rather need to blend in. But I assure you, I have no loyalty to the shapeshifters who enslaved my people.”

“How did you make it through the wormhole?” Dax interjected from her station.

The Vorta lifted his chin with what might have been a soft sound of amusement. “I possess certain abilities that have been culled from the species. Traversing the wormhole is simply a matter of seeing the right path and taking it.”

 

That scout ship had made it through the wormhole, and there was a decent possibility that an entire fleet wasn't far behind, ready to blast Terok Nor into a roiling cloud of dust. If that were the case, there was nothing Dukat could do to prevent it, and so he made peace with that possibility as he continued toward the infirmary.

“Do you know what this red alert is about?” asked Damar as soon as he came through the door. Damar was seated on a biobed next to the one that Weyoun was reclining in, a neural regenerator wrapped around the back of his head.

“A ship came through the wormhole,” said Dukat as he went to Weyoun's bedside and took his hands, grateful that Damar was the only other person present. “How do you feel?”

Weyoun glanced at the ceiling. “Better,” he said, but he sounded weak. “I’m glad you're here. I thought you might be tied up with Starfleet business and I might not see you.”

Dukat squeezed his hand. “Your clones at the Rondac facility?”

“If you could get one out,” he said with a wry smile, “and then activate it somehow, transfer my memetic imprint within a day, and hope it comes out just as defective…”

“Then that's what I'll do,” said Dukat. “Assuming, of course, Captain Sisko can fend off this attack.”

“It's not an attack.”

Dukat turned sharply toward the door. A Starfleet officer, young — though Dukat had trouble gauging human age — and of a low rank, slightly out of breath.

“Captain Sisko wants him in ops,” he continued, gesturing toward Weyoun. “There was a Vorta on the ship who says he's not part of the Dominion. Says he can vouch for him.”

Dukat turned to ask Weyoun if he felt up to the walk to Operations, but stopped when he saw his bloodless face.

“What is it?”

Shaking his head, Weyoun said, “I know who's on that ship.”

That was all Dukat could get out of him until they'd made it up to ops, Weyoun leaning heavily on his arm as they went. The entire room turned toward them expectantly as they stepped off the lift, but Weyoun's eyes were locked on the screen, and the Vorta standing at the helm of the scout ship.

“Morau,” he said softly.

“You should have come to Shi Mar  _ months _ ago,” said Morau with a piteous look. “I’m glad you reached out to me. You don't look like you'd have made it another day.”

“You contacted this man?” asked Sisko sharply.

Morau raised a hand. “I'm sorry, Captain,” he said. “That was a bit unclear. He didn't  _ contact _ me, at least not intentionally. You see, Vorta in their natural state possess an innate mental connection to one another. Weyoun has been working very hard to suppress that ability in himself, but I suppose his illness wore down that self-control and he instinctively reached out across that connection.”

Weyoun suddenly became heavier against Dukat's side, his head falling forward against his chest. Dukat caught him before his legs gave out.

On the screen, Morau tapped out a frantic sequence on his console. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “I believe you'll forgive me for overriding your security measures, Captain Sisko.”

Almost before he'd finished speaking, he was engulfed in a shimmering transporter beam and materialized a moment later on the station, walking out if its dissipating light toward where Dukat knelt on the floor, Weyoun limp in his arms.

“Hold him still,” he ordered, clamping his palms over either side of Weyoun's skull. A blue light bloomed around his hands, the same light Dukat had seen Weyoun produce once in Kama'ara, and again when he disabled Damar's disruptor.

As the light dissolved away, Morau checked his pulse and lifted an eyelid.

“Will he be alright?” Dukat asked, voice low.

Morau glanced up at him. “Not if I don't get him somewhere I can treat him.”

“I'll show you to medical.”

“That won't be sufficient,” he said snaking an arm underneath Weyoun and hoisting him up over his shoulder as he stood. “I’ll need my equipment and supplies. I'm afraid I don't have time to argue the point.”

With that, Morau pressed the implant in his wrist, activated his transporter beacon, and vanished.

 

As he had nearly every hour for the past three days, Dukat glanced out the porthole near the desk in his quarters as the station's rotation brought the field of stars between the constellations  _ Pris _ and _ Regova _ — the space where he knew the wormhole to be — into view. The first few days after Morau had taken Weyoun through it, he'd kept busy, but first Damar had left for Cardassia, and then Ziyal had gone with Major Kira to Bajor, and he'd spent more and more time in this dim, silent room, working on his assignment from Starfleet.

It felt like a punishment. In a way, it was — his penance for believing that he could wield the Dominion's power and preserve Cardassia's autonomy; to be reduced to taking orders from the Federation while another puppet play-acted governance and another Weyoun pulled the strings.

Idly, his fingers traced a familiar pattern on the smooth surface of the desk:  _ Ba...Eiya...Va...An… _

The sharply-angled wings of  _ Regova _ slipped out of view, and so he turned his eyes back down to the desk, the PADD in front of him, and the document he'd been drafting:

**Strategy for Cardassian Resistance to the Dominion Occupation.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in "Change In The Air".


End file.
